#this was just getting the placement of everything

[astrolook]

🧭Synastry - Their 1st Lord Through The Houses 🔍

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home! A single placement or aspect isn't enough to conclude and the whole chart has to be analyzed!

Their 1st house lord shows how they move through life, how they carry themselves, and how they naturally are. When it lands in one of your houses, it shows where their presence hits you. Where they enter your life. It’s not about what they do, it’s who they are. And who they are lives in that part of your chart. That’s the role they end up playing in your world, whether they know it or not. It shows what part of you they wake up, disturb, support, or define, just by being themselves.

Their 1st lord thru your houses:

Their 1st lord in ur 1st - They will make u feel like a main character. They bring out your “I don’t care what people think” era. You like how you look when you’re with them. Their presence will make u say, "I need this person in my life." You actually become more confident just bcoz they're around you. On the other hand, it can be somewhat annoying. They’re always in your face energetically like calm down, I get it, you exist. You would feel exposed. Identity crisis.

Keywords: mirroring energy, feels like you’re seeing yourself, direct pull, strong first impression, wants to lead or match you, can’t ignore them even when you try, makes it feel personal from day one, wants attention but pretends not to, competes with your identity, intense presence in small spaces, connection feels alive and unavoidable, fast emotional pacing, shows up with strong opinions or strong stares, acts like they belong in your life, can become overwhelming fast, brings out your ego or soft spots, after breakup stays close or circles back often, doesn’t disappear quietly.

Their 1st lord in ur 2nd - You feel more sensual around them, like even food tastes better. You want to invest in yourself when they’re near, like skincare, therapy, fitness or whatever. You would start dressing better. Nothing feels rushed here. You will feel safe around them. You might even start to adopt better habits or behaviors once they enter your life. On the other hand, they make you painfully aware of everything you don’t have. They might call you lazy or unmotivated in life. One of you might think the other is high maintenance.

Keywords: slow but deep, grounded presence, gives consistent attention, shows love through small actions, loyal energy even if unspoken, notices details about you, calm vibe but emotionally steady, values stability, becomes part of your everyday without forcing it, brings quiet comfort, makes you reflect on what you value, may become overly focused on material or emotional control, gets attached in subtle ways, resents inconsistency, wants something to build not just feel, after breakup lingers emotionally, takes a long time to detach, may hold grudges quietly.

Their 1st lord in ur 3rd - You could talk to them for hours and still feel like you forgot to say something. They would get ur movie, political, or pop culture references without blinking. You would become enthusiastic about talking to them would feel like a butterfly. You start talking like them, typing like them, mentally adopting their slang. On the flip side, they make you feel smart and stupid at the same time. You over-analyze everything they say or do. In arguments, you could be losing, and they could make u feel dumb or would call u names or get bitchy.

Keywords: fast talker, curious energy, mentally sharp, shares thoughts easily, feels like a friend before anything else, always has something to say, likes banter more than big talks, wants stimulation not silence, may confuse motion for connection, wants to be heard and matched mentally, changes tone often, mixes deep and light fast, hard to pin down emotionally, shows care through questions or quick support, connection feels like inside jokes and random tangents, after breakup stays present online or through others, may act casual but still thinks about the “what ifs”.

Their 1st lord in ur 4th - You def wanna cook for them and would do anything to make them feel at home. You would let them in fast and won't regret it (until later). Their energy makes your walls drop. You get this need to show them ur childhood bedroom or pictures or share things about ur childhood. They’re the type you’d let see you cry. On the other hand, they might trigger ur childhood trauma or make it worse. They migth expect u to be dependent on them for everything and if not, would ghost you. Can get toxic really fast. Your family might not like them near you.

Keywords: emotionally deep, feels like family or memory, strong pull that doesn’t make sense at first, triggers vulnerability early, shows care through presence not performance, watches more than speaks, slow to trust but intense when opened, connection feels safe but also heavy, brings up old emotional patterns, may become overly protective or emotionally reactive, gives comfort and chaos at the same time, hides feelings but shows them in action, emotionally invested fast, can become clingy or too quiet, after breakup still affects your emotional space, shows up in dreams, hard to fully let go of.

Their 1st lord in ur 5th - They would bring out ur fun side. You flirt better with them than anyone else and you know it. You feel hot, seen, and slightly unhinged in their presence. You could make dumb jokes, and they would still laugh at it. Childlike couple. You would start taking more photos of yourself when they're in ur life, not a coincidence. On the other hand, the second they pull back, your self-esteem crumbles like a dry cookie. You can’t tell if it’s love or just the dopamine of being noticed. If they leave, u might feel like they turned off ur main character vibe.

Keywords: attention seeking, charming, playful, dramatic highs, performs around you, wants to be adored, flirts loud, makes you feel seen, warm then cold, fun until serious, craves praise, craves being special to you, jealous of your attention, shows off affection, creates moments not stability, can feel like a walking daydream, turns feelings into theater, romanticizes connection, needs validation constantly, after breakup acts like they’re fine but still watches from the crowd.

Their 1st lord in ur 6th - You start showing up for yourself because you want to keep up with them. There’s comfort in the routine they bring, and u would become more consistent just from being around them. They would actually make ur life better and vice versa. Their energy fits into your daily life like it was always supposed to be there. On the other hand, you fix their problems, and they still complain. They make you feel boring, invisible, like you’re just part of their background. You feel more like their assistant than someone they actually value.

Keywords: helpful, humble at first, acts through service, cares through doing, shows love in routines, anxious connection, wants to fix things, gets lost in small details, pushes self to prove worth, overworks to feel enough, rarely asks for help, reliable but emotionally distant, shows up daily but hides deeper needs, connects through shared tasks, gives more than receives, feels like a quiet support, may become bitter if unseen, after breakup burns out emotionally but keeps checking in indirectly.

Their 1st lord in ur 7th - They're ur missing piece. You understand them fast, like your soul skipped the intro. You feel like you’ve been circling each other for lifetimes. It feels serious even when it’s casual, like this could change your life. The vibe is magnetic like two puzzle pieces from different boxes that still somehow click. On the other hand, they trigger your abandonment issues by just existing. You might start projecting all your wants, fears, and old wounds onto them. They might also get under your skin because they act like the parts of you, you’re still avoiding. You’re obsessed with how they see you and it makes you lose yourself. You confuse compatibility with familiarity and might stay too long.

Keywords: mirrored connection, intense attraction, sees you as a reflection, wants partnership deeply, drawn to your energy without knowing why, triggers old wounds and idealism, acts like you complete them, obsessed with balance, gets clingy or overly detached, can feel like soulmate or enemy depending on day, needs equal attention, becomes reactive if not chosen, acts polished but hides fears of rejection, becomes who you need then resents it, after breakup acts cold but wants closure badly.

Their 1st lord in ur 8th - The bond goes deeper than logic, on a cellular level. You want to tell them your secrets and then beg them to never use them. The connection makes you feel alive in that “no going back” way. You feel emotionally seen in a way that scares you but also makes you stay. The chemistry is otherworldly. On the other hand, one of you is obsessed with the other. You might start spiraling over things they haven’t even done yet. You might try to detach but it’s like cutting off a limb. One of you is addicted to the other and would lowkey love the suffering.

Keywords: deep energy, emotional pull, heavy presence, triggers hidden stuff, feels karmic, creates obsession fast, magnetic but unstable, makes you confront fear, feels risky to trust, sees what you don’t say, creates intensity without asking, shows up like a test, unspoken tension, power games without words, trusts too fast or not at all, can become possessive with no reason, emotional undercurrents always active, after breakup haunts your thoughts, disappears but never really gone.

Their 1st lord in ur 9th - You will upgrade yourself through them. They will teach you that there's more to life. It can start as a long-dist relationship or u both might go on journeys together. They will show you what real freedom is (as long as their 1st lord isn't Saturn). Your soul gets a glow-up. On the other hand, you would feel more lost than ever. They make you question what you believe in, but don’t stick around to rebuild it. They can be out of reach either emotionally or literally whenever u want them around you. They might look down upon you for not having the same beliefs as they do. You might feel like they’re always halfway out the door.

Keywords: inspiring, free spirit, distant energy, makes you question beliefs, expands your view, feels like a trip not a destination, acts wise but vague, pushes you to grow, hard to hold down, exciting presence, shows up with fire then fades, intellectual connection strong, makes you want more from life, acts like a teacher or guide, emotionally light but spiritually loud, disappears when things get too real, after breakup leaves with grace but their ideas stay with you.

Their 1st lord in ur 10th - You respect how they carry themselves and they make you want to get your life together immediately. You see long-term potential with them. They push you upward even if it’s silent. They would be proud of what you do, and they would talk about you or introduce you to their people. On the other hand, you might feel judged by them. One of you might compare success with the other and feel like being in a silent competition.

Keywords: admires status, driven energy, puts you on a pedestal, shows up seriously, wants long term proof, notices your image, acts reserved but intense underneath, pushes you to be better, judges silently, wants mutual respect, shows love through support not words, may use success as love language, high standards, won’t beg for connection, emotionally distant but very aware, stays composed, shows love in public ways, after breakup focuses on goals but still checks if you’re watching.

Their 1st lord in ur 11th - They get your weird and won’t judge u for anything. That’s rare. They bring out your idealistic side, the part that still believes in people. They don’t judge your weird interests/ hobbies, they match them. You actually might imagine a future with them. You feel more like yourself around them than with your actual friends. Your "partner-in-crime." On the other hand, you can’t tell if they care or if they’re just really friendly. You feel emotionally close but logistically...nowhere. They might support you but never choose you. You might feel replaceable even though the connection is strong. You might try to act chill, but you’re secretly obsessed with how detached they are.

Keywords: friendly vibe, easy to talk to, hard to define, feels like future potential, deep yet detached, gets close without labels, emotional distance but strong mental pull, loves shared ideas, connection grows slowly, may treat you like everyone else but mean it more, supports your dreams, values individuality, can feel like a best friend or stranger in the same day, hard to read feelings, acts like nothing’s wrong when they care deeply, after breakup stays in orbit but won’t reach out first.

Their 1st lord in ur 12th - They unlock feelings you can't name or express. You trust them in a way that makes no logical sense. You feel them in your dreams, in music, in random waves of emotion. You forgive them before they even apologize. You might feel like part of you belongs to them and let them in past your defense systems without realizing it. On the other hand, you feel like you’re dissolving in them, losing yourself piece by piece. You never know where you stand, or if you even exist to them. They feel close even when they’re completely gone. It ends without closure, and you carry it like it still needs you.

Keywords: dreamlike energy, confusing but magnetic, quiet presence, connection feels faded before it starts, shows up in silence not action, emotional fog, feels fated but distant, triggers spiritual depth, reflects your unconscious, may feel invisible or overwhelming, connection hard to define, disappears often, may ghost without meaning harm, love feels like surrender, triggers healing or escapism, shows up in dreams more than texts, after breakup stays in your energy for months, feels like you never really knew them.

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

[anim-ttrpgs]

In lieu of me seeing “wargamer” be used as an insult for like the fifteenth time in two weeks, being used as a derogatory term for people who want to engage with combat mechanics in TTRPGs, I feel I need to bring attention to the fact that there is an idiotic culture war being fought in the space of TTRPGs and has been for several years.

Hanging out in “progressive” spaces mostly, and talking to an audience who would mostly consider themselves “progressive” and mostly hang out in “progressive” spaces, I’m going to talk about this as it is framed from the “progressive” side, but rest assured, everything I’m about to talk about is stupid as hell from both sides.

There are two sides in this war, not all people even know they’re fighting in it. There’s the “Progressive” side and the “Conservative” side. Now, one would think that the points over which these battles are fought would be matters of, like, racism, sexism, etc., and to some degree they are, but it gets much stupider than that. There is a perception that these factions’ holdings go beyond political ideology, which is how and where this war is actually being fought.

Each of these factions has holdings associated with them which essentially “dogwhistle” you as being one side or the other.

“Progressives”

Powered by the Apocalypse

Belonging Outside Belonging

“Narrative”

Diceless

“Story focused”

One page games

Solo journaling games

D&D5e

“Conservatives”

OSR

Trad (as in the structure of TTRPG, not like virgin tradwife trad.)

Combat

Rules

D&D3.5e

AD&D

Wargaming

Warhammer

D&D5e

(If any of the placements above seem like nonsense to you, it’s because they are, especially since I have argued many times “combat” and “rules” and “narrative” aren’t actually opposites, but those are the holdings on which you will be judged. I’ve personally been called an “OSR guy” several times as an insult for implying that TTRPG rules are something you’re not supposed to ignore, and I don’t even care that much for OSR games.)

Spending time in “progressive” spaces mostly I mostly bear the shots and venom from the “progressive” side who often ID me as a “conservative” from the stink of OSR and trad-TTRPGs and rules and Warhammer on me.

and however fucking dumb this is, it is incredibly pervasive, and I think everyone should be on the lookout for it so as to not perpetuate it, and to call it dumb whenever possible. Do not get swept up in this. Even if any of those holdings were based on reality, playing TTRPGs is not activism. Media consumption is not activism.

Because really all this is is jacked up bullying and rejection of media literacy. It’s just “roleplaying vs rollplaying” fart-sniffing pseudo-intellectual elitism from the 90s but dressed up in today's langage.

Worst of all for me and those like me, it is assigning moral failing to the notion that TTRPG rules matter, even (and perhaps especially) for “story” and that combat isn’t automatically bad and stupid gameplay. This is assigning moral failing to TTRPG design itself.

[ao3scrapesearch]

Hiya! I know it's been a little while but I just wanted to let you know I finally got around to making the web version of that fic poisoning tool I made about a month ago. It's at https://tricksofloki.github.io/ficpoison.html if you're interested :)

OHOHOHO!

Alright, I gave this a little test on my own fic over here. Quick little review/notes for anyone interested! (But the tl;dr is that I approve based on my initial review of the original code and based on using this web tool to automate running the code.)

This version is super easy to use. I'll be honest; I was struggling trying to figure out how to run the code locally before because that is not a coding language I personally use, and this website takes out all of the hard part of doing that. You need to do the one time task of creating a work skin to enable the "poison" CSS used, and you need to make sure that work skin is enabled for any work you're going to use this on. The code to put into your work skin is available at the link. If you already have a work skin you use, you can just add this class to it. (I think the tutorial I linked to does a good job walking you through how, but I'm open to doing a tutorial on this blog if anyone wants that.)

If you're poisoning an existing fic, first have a backup copy. Once you poison it, that copy is going to be annoying to UN-poison if you ever want to, so you should keep a private copy on your PC or phone or wherever so you have the unpoisoned version available. Once you do this, your copy on AO3 is poisoned, and it would take a fair amount of effort to unpoison as the author. Upside: as the author, you can see all the CSS stuff in the background, so if you really need to unpoison a copy as the author with full access to it, it's not impossible. Just really annoying.

For reference, here's what I can see as the author with access to the edit page:

I can clearly see where the poison is if I really wanted to go back through and unpoison.

And here is what I can see in a copy scraped with nyuuzyou's code:

You can definitely see it's messed up by looking, but you don't see an active callout to where exactly the poison code is. Keep in mind that not every scraper uses the same code as nyuuzyou, and more sophisticated code may pull something more sophisticated than the plain text from nyuuzyou's tool. Other scrapers may be pulling fics with the formatting and everything, and I don't know exactly what that output looks like. Depending on what their output is, if they can see the class for the poison, they can pretty easily code something to remove it. That's me being overly conservative, I suspect. I haven't heard of any scrapers who have bothered with anything more than plain text, and this isn't an issue unless they're grabbing the full HTML. (Translation: From what I know, this is NOT an issue. Yet. So this is not a weakness of the poison tool. Yet.)

Based on the output, anyone who's doing a half decent job of cleaning up the data they scrape would toss my fic out of the dataset. It's full of what look like typos because the poison got placed mid-word, so it looks like I just suck at writing. If your goal is to get tossed out of the dataset, this is perfect. If a scraper isn't paying attention at all, you can contribute some really terrible training data if they leave your fic in the set because your poisoned fic is going to be full or words that don't even exist thanks to the word placement.

As far as using the tool, I used an existing fic. I went into the edit page for the chapter, scrolled to the bottom and left the text editor on the default HTML mode. I copied everything in that box. (Easy method: click into the box where you can type out the fic, and press "Ctrl" and "A" to select all, then "Ctrl" and "C" to copy.) I went to the tab with all-hail-trash-prince's tool, and I pasted it into the box on the left.

I clicked "Apply poison" and the poisoned fic appeared in the right box. I copied the poisoned fic from the right box, went back to my fic on AO3 with my custom work skin already enabled, and I pasted the poison fic in place of the original fic. I clicked the preview button to make sure it would look normal, and it did. So I clicked to update the chapter with the poison block included.

I loaded the chapter with the default Microsoft screen reader turned on, and it didn't read any of the poison data, only the real fic that is visible on the screen, so success there.

So that brings us to applying this to a brand new fic. For those, you're going to go through the motions of posting a fic as usual, but instead of clicking post when you're done, you're going to swap that text editing mode over to HTML and copy everything in there. Take it to the poison tool, paste it in, and grab your poisoned copy. Go back to AO3, make sure your poison work skin is enabled, and then replace the original fic with the poison fic, making sure to stay in the HTML editing mode while you do.

(Sneaky quick edit after posting: sometimes the tool leaves you with a dangling <p> or </p> or <em>. Make sure you always preview the chapter after poisoning it, and you can go back in to the rich text editor to delete any of the floating tags that were accidentally put in by the poison.)

The last downside I notice is that your word count is immediately wrong. My 34k fic looks like a 43k fic after poisoning the first 16k words. Technically, you don't have to tell people the true word count of your fic but like. That feels a little rude to the reader, so I think it would be kind to briefly put the true word count either at the bottom of your summary or in your first author's note.

To me, the downsides of having to create a custom work skin (that trash-prince has kindly already written for everyone) and having the wrong word count displayed... are nothing. In comparison to having my fic be easy to scrape, I'll take those slight downsides any day. From what I know of the current scraping landscape, this is a reasonably effective way to make your fic useless to anyone who scrapes it because people are out there that will be scraping AO3 again.

I'm curious to hear anyone else's thoughts if they check this tool out or try it for themselves, so don't be shy! I'm one person, so maybe I can't catch everything. If you're seeing something that I'm not, I want to hear about it.

And if anyone wants a more visual step by step, you are welcome to yell my way. If this text post is clear enough for everyone, I won't bother, but if a more visual walkthrough will help anyone, then I'm happy to do it!

EDIT: Just tossing in a summary of feedback I've seen from others below!

The tool is pulling from a list of most popular English words, which means it may add inappropriate verbiage to G-rated fics. See this ask for info. trash-prince has made adjustments based on the initial words spotted, but please kindly report any other concerning poison words you find, particularly slurs and other wording that cannot be interpreted in a SFW way.

[saebs-index]

⚡︎ astrology observations cuatro

⟡ people with 2nd house stelliums always smell good. they probably care more about their scent than the average person since the 2nd house can be associated with smells. they got the best perfume/cologne recommendations though fr. especially venus in 2nd house people

⟡ i don’t like the rhetoric some astrologers try to push of everything being love and light in astrology. there is most definitely negative energies in astrology just like with everything else. i get having anxiety and not wanting to read about those things but if that’s the case then literally just scroll. i don’t get it? some of us like honesty (aka me with my sag stellium in sidereal)

⟡ there’s definitely a difference between signs and houses, although yea i think there’s similarities, but like for example 11th house stelliums are much more good at socializing than aquarius stelliums

⟡ jupiter in the 7th house isn’t even all that idc. many i’ve met have had multiple marriages or a lot of failed relationships. they tend to fall for ego maniacs. they also attract so much conflict into their life istg. i do think jupiter is beneficial in most ways but it can bring bad abundance too sometimes. when it comes to talent this placement is great though. very artistically talented people. many people that are good looking have this placement too

⟡ libra placements usually always have bad acne at some point in their life. a lot go on accutane. not sure of the reason for this besides libra being associated with skin

⟡ derivative astrology and persona charts are more interesting and accurate than asteroids and all that imo. i wish derivative astrology was more popular. you can figure out a lot of specific things through these methods just like you can with asteroids

⟡ aries mars do have pretty bad anger issues usually but when they’re evolved they are good at being direct and handling conflict in a more mature way. they’re just quick to get angry. also quick to forgive though in my experience

⟡ just because their venus doesn’t conjunct your ascendant in your synastry chart that doesn’t mean they won’t fall in love with you. there’s a lot of other synastry or composite to look at besides just that

⟡ a 4th house stellium in composite charts creates a lot of comfortability between two people. you’ll feel very safe with each other, but i’m ngl every time i’ve experienced this i’ve gotten bored in the relationship pretty quickly unless there was some other fun placement to go against that energy. i mean maybe my aquarius mars just loves chaos idk

⟡ having benefics in the 9th house in composite charts can bring lots of fun and adventure into a relationship. you could travel a lot together as well. especially if you have jupiter and venus in the 9th house. if there isn’t placements that are more committed and create something long term though this can be bad

i’m a realist and extremely honest, sorry not sorry.

[simplybishova]

city of devils - chapter four

Normally when Yelena is coming back from a job like this, her thoughts are swirling about placement, about detection and whether or not they will get everything they need.

Today though, it’s different, as has been everything about this job since they started it. Because Yelena isn’t really worried about the placement of the bugs she planted in Kate Bishop’s apartment.

Mostly…she just feels guilty.

She won’t dwell on it, she can't, but for the entirety of the ride back to their hotel, Yelena lets herself sit in this feeling.

It’s a terrible feeling. She was so…taken with Kate from the moment they first started talking. It would be simpler if she had known from the beginning who Kate was, but she didn’t, and now this thing that felt very electric and good suddenly has her with knots in her stomach.

Because there is no happy ending for this. They are on opposite sides of a simmering power struggle that is going to end with a lot of people dead or in prison and Yelena has seen enough bloodshed to know that there is no other ending.

Yet, something about Kate Bishop just does not fit into this world she’s stuck in. Yelena is not naive enough to assume she knows everything about Kate from three encounters and two very good days of lovemaking.

Obviously, Kate is a part of Fisk’s operation. She is apparently an integral part and no doubt her mother and her mother’s company is a huge asset to that.

But Yelena has been told more than a few times that some people are good despite being made to do bad things. She does not know if that is true for Kate, but after talking to her today it is hard to paint her as a villain.

She thinks she sees a lot of herself in Kate, a reflection of someone stuck in a life they don’t want, doing things they wish they could refuse, but having no other choice.

Yelena gives herself the elevator ride up to the room they’re staying in to feel guilty.

CONT ON AO3

[lifeofpriya]

ethics of first introductions - Jack Draper

[gif credit goes to @pyotrkochetkov]

a/n: let's see if i still remember how to do this, y'all 😉 the reader is feminine fyi

summary: the journey of you and Jack going from being academic rivals to lovers...

You meet Jack Draper at a planning meeting you absolutely didn’t want to attend.

It’s a Thursday evening, mid-Hilary term, and the air in the Christ Church seminar room is thick with the kind of overachiever energy that makes your teeth itch. You’re here because you’re the Deputy Chair of the Oxford Business Society, and the powers that be thought it’d be good optics to co-host a “multi-disciplinary symposium” with The Grey Society—a justice-focused academic group known for its moody event posters, borderline cultish membership, and one extremely photogenic president.

You’re here for logistics. For running orders and keynote placement. What you’re not here for is the tall, brooding criminology major who shows up fifteen minutes late with a decaf cappuccino, damp curls, and exactly zero apologies.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low, accent clipped and soft around the edges. “Tutorial ran long.”

He doesn’t look sorry.

You glance up from your laptop just long enough to clock him—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a grey quarter-zip that fits entirely too well. He drops into the seat across from you like it’s the only one that could hold him, unzips his backpack, and pulls out a battered leather notebook instead of a laptop.

Of course he uses a notebook. Of course he’s that guy.

You clear your throat. “We’ve already gone over the proposed agenda.”

He looks up at you then—hazel eyes, lashes criminally full, the fringe of his damp hair falling into one of them. There’s a faint lazy drift in his left eye. Almost imperceptible. Like he’s listening with one part of himself and thinking about something else entirely with the other.

“Can you catch me up?” he asks.

You blink. “It’s literally projected on the screen.”

Someone coughs. Possibly laughs. He doesn’t flinch. Just blinks slowly, like he’s waiting for you to concede, and dammit—you kind of do.

You walk him through it, brisk and clinical, eyes darting between your bullet points and the infuriating calm on his face. He listens like he’s reading you, not the slide—head tilted, one thumb brushing the rim of his coffee cup, expression unreadable.

When you finish, he nods once. Then: “I’d suggest we rework the second panel. Two of your speakers are industry, not academic.”

“They’re alumni. From Saïd Business School,” you counter, already bristling.

“They’re still industry,” he says evenly. “The panel’s titled ‘Justice and Power in Policy Design.’ Unless we’re letting VPs define carceral ethics now?”

Your jaw tightens. You don’t look at the chair. You don’t look at anyone. You look at him.

“They’ve both worked on cross-sector justice initiatives,” you say coolly. “And one of them is funding the event. So unless The Grey Society’s running on moral superiority and air, I’d rethink your tone.”

That gets a reaction. Just a flicker—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like interest.

You hate him immediately.

You hate the way he sits, like he’s already won the debate. You hate the calm in his voice. You hate how good his forearms look when he crosses them. And most of all? You hate that you know, in your gut, you’re going to see him again.

Because of course you are.

This is Oxford.

And boys like Jack Draper? They always show up when you least expect it—and just when you start thinking you’ve got everything under control.

You try not to think about him after that first meeting.

---

You file him under Pretentious Academic Men You’ll Tolerate for the Sake of the Event, sandwiched neatly between the philosophy bro who once quoted Nietzsche at brunch and the PPE guy who only emails in bullet points and vibes. Jack Draper? He’s just another bullet. Another scheduling problem. Another mildly attractive obstacle with an Oxford ego and a veiny forearm problem.

And yet.

You see him again four days later—in the cloisters, of all places. You’re on your way to a one-on-one with your business ethics tutor, already drafting talking points in your head, when you catch a flash of movement in your peripheral vision. Hoodie up, joggers slung low on those unfairly sculpted hips, headphones in. Jack. Draper.

He’s standing alone, back against the stone archway, flipping through the same leather notebook from the meeting. No laptop. No coffee. Just him and the echo of silence that clings to old buildings and overthinkers.

You slow for a beat. Watch him underline something. Then pause. Then stare into the distance like he’s trying to argue with a thought before it fully forms.

He doesn’t see you. Not at first.

But the second you start walking again, your heels clicking against centuries-old stone, his head lifts.

One second. That’s all it takes.

One slow upward glance. One flick of his fringe. One soft, knowing raise of his eyebrow that says, You again.

You don’t stop. But you nod.

It’s barely perceptible—more instinct than greeting. A motion that means I’m not impressed, but I see you. He nods back, jaw tightening like he’s holding in something too complicated to say in passing.

You keep walking.

But the air feels different now.

Later that week, your inbox pings with a revision to the event program. A Google Doc edit suggestion—anonymous, but you know it’s him. The phrasing is too specific. The notes too meticulous. He’s rewritten your transition paragraph with the kind of precision that reads like a challenge.

You accept the edit. Then leave a comment:

“Not bad. For a criminologist.”

The reply comes ten minutes later.

“Didn’t realize business students had a sense of humor.”

You don’t smile. Not outwardly, anyway.

---

The email says 8 p.m., but Jack shows up at 7:47.

You’re already in the study room at Christ Church—half out of your blazer, shoes kicked off, surrounded by sticky notes, an open laptop, and a greasy brown paper bag that definitely doesn’t count as a proper dinner. The room smells like curry and cold air. Your fourth cup of tea has gone lukewarm.

When the door creaks open, you don’t look up right away. You’re bracing for one of the other society members, maybe your painfully chipper co-chair who insists on saying “synergy” with a straight face.

Instead, it’s him.

Hoodie. Joggers. A copy of The Ethics of Policing in the Modern State tucked under one arm. And in his other hand?

Takeaway. Two bags. One visibly leaking.

He says nothing, just kicks the door shut with the side of his foot and drops everything onto the table like it’s not a whole statement.

You blink. “What’s that?”

“Didn’t think you’d eaten,” he says, matter-of-fact, pulling out napkins like it’s not the most quietly thoughtful thing a man has ever done in the middle of an academic turf war.

“I did,” you lie.

“You didn’t.” He unwraps a container and slides it toward you. “Eat before you turn feral.”

You narrow your eyes. “You bring all your enemies dinner?”

He doesn’t flinch. “Only the ones who fight fair.”

It’s too warm in the room all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just you.

You pick at the rice. He cracks open a bottle of sparkling water and starts editing the run-of-show with a red pen like he’s marking up a crime scene. You watch the way he presses the cap to his lower lip between thoughts. The way his fringe falls forward when he leans over your laptop to scroll.

There’s a tension in him—not the sharp kind from the meeting, but something heavier. Slower. Like he’s holding something back, not out of arrogance, but out of habit.

You steal a glance at his notebook, open beside him.

The margins are full of phrases. Not notes. Not bullet points. Sentences. Thoughts. Most of them crossed out. One isn’t.

"Not everything broken needs to be punished."

You don’t comment. But your eyes linger long enough that he notices.

“Draft title,” he says quietly. “Essay I haven’t started.”

You nod. Then softer: “It’s good.”

He shrugs one shoulder. Stares at the page. Doesn’t look at you when he says, “It’s not done.”

Neither are you.

Neither is this.

And when you both leave the study room that night—him holding the door, you pretending not to notice how close his hand comes to the small of your back—you already know:

You’re going to see him again. Not because you have to.

Because you want to.

And that, somehow, is the most dangerous part of all.

---

It happens by accident.

You weren’t supposed to be on the second floor of the library that late, and he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be in your corner—the half-forgotten alcove near the theology stacks, the one you claimed in first year and never gave up. But when you round the corner with a thick text on behavioral finance pressed to your chest, there he is.

Jack Draper.

Cross-legged on the carpet like he’s forgotten chairs exist, back against the cold stone wall, one knee bouncing under a grey hoodie with the Christ Church crest half-faded. There’s no laptop. No tennis bag. Just a paperback—creased spine, battered corners—balanced in one hand.

And in the other?

His phone, screen still glowing with a message he hasn’t quite put down. His thumb hovers over it. His face is too still.

You don’t mean to stare. But something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders curved in, head tipped back against the stone like it’s holding him up—stops you.

“You okay?” you ask, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He startles slightly. Then exhales. “Didn’t think anyone came up here this late.”

“I do.”

He doesn’t answer.

You sit down next to him.

Not close. Not touching. Just enough that he knows you’re there.

For a while, the only sound is the hum of the library lights and the muted shuffle of pages somewhere two floors down. Jack doesn’t move. He’s not tense, not exactly. Just… stuck. Like a system mid-reboot.

You glance down at the book. The Body Keeps the Score.

And suddenly you know.

You nod toward the phone still lit in his hand. “Want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t. But he does.

He shifts slightly, setting the phone down face-down. Rubs the heel of his palm against his jaw like it’s habit. Then finally, softly:

“My mum sent me a voice note.”

You wait.

“She was asking if I’d had dinner. Said she was making chicken pie. Offered to drop some off if I came home this weekend.”

His voice isn’t breaking. It’s not even cracking. It’s too quiet for that. But there’s something brittle underneath, like glass with one line too many.

“She does that,” he adds. “Still.”

You nod, unsure if he wants silence or solidarity.

“She was the one who stayed,” he continues, thumb tracing the seam of his hoodie sleeve. “When things went to shit. When my dad…” His jaw flexes. “It was messy. Loud. And she just… held the rest together. Like always.”

You think of the way he carries himself. The stillness. The order. The control he clings to like a second skin.

“She’s the reason I don’t flinch when things get bad,” he says. “But also the reason I feel like I have to keep everything together all the time. Like if I don’t, I’m letting her down.”

Your throat aches.

You want to tell him that’s not how it works. That she’d be proud even if he unraveled. That she probably knows he’s trying.

Instead, you reach over and rest your fingers on his knee. Light. Barely there.

He doesn’t move. But he lets you.

A beat.

Then he speaks again—barely above a whisper.

“I don’t talk about my dad much.”

You say nothing.

“I used to try to be like him,” he says. “Sharp. Strategic. Untouchable.”

Another pause.

“I hated it.”

The words hang there, raw and unpolished, and for once Jack Draper doesn’t try to clean them up.

He just breathes.

And you sit with him in the quiet, not trying to fix it. Just there.

His knee stops bouncing.

His thumb goes still.

And when he finally turns his head to look at you, something in his expression has softened—like maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to believe he doesn’t have to do this alone.

You don’t say anything when he stands.

You just gather your things quietly, slinging your bag over your shoulder and watching as he presses the book closed without marking the page. He doesn’t need a bookmark, you realize. He remembers the exact spot. Of course he does.

The walk back to college is slow. It’s cold out—crisp, as the BBC weather app calls it—but he doesn’t zip his hoodie. Just lets it hang open, sleeves pushed up like always, forearms catching the light from the occasional lamp post.

You don’t talk much. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s something steadier. Something earned.

You reach Christ Church’s outer gate, where your paths usually split.

Jack hesitates.

Then, without looking at you: “Can I walk you all the way in?”

You nod, heart thudding like you’ve just sprinted a court.

He follows a step behind, hand brushing yours once. Twice. The third time, you don’t move it. Neither does he. His pinky grazes yours on purpose now—soft, tentative, like he’s asking in a language only skin understands.

At your door, you unlock it slowly.

He doesn’t move to go. Doesn’t step forward either.

You turn, hand still on the knob. “Thanks for walking me.”

He nods once. Swallows. “Thanks for… earlier.”

And just before you step inside—barely louder than the breeze—he says your name.

You look up.

His eyes are soft. Vulnerable. That lazy left-eye drift more noticeable in the dark. He’s not hiding anymore.

“Night,” he says, like it means more than just sleep.

It does.

You don’t plan it. Not really.

---

It’s three days later, and he’s just finished a brutal match against Cambridge—won it in straight sets but looked emotionally frayed the whole way through. You watched from the stands, perched on the edge of the back row, heart in your throat every time he clenched his jaw or shook out his wrist like he was trying to shake off something heavier than pain.

You know better now. You know what that weight looks like.

So later, when you show up outside his flat just off High Street, it’s not with flowers or a pep talk.

It’s with a still-warm pie in a paper carrier bag, a small Tupperware of mashed potatoes, and a sticky note that just says:

“Because your mum would’ve brought you one. And you deserve that.”

You knock once.

The door creaks open slower than usual.

He’s in a hoodie and sweats, damp curls flattened from a post-match shower, his brow furrowed like he’s bracing for bad news.

Then he sees the bag.

Then the note.

And then you.

And something in his face just… drops.

Not in a bad way.

Not like he’s breaking.

But like something heavy inside him is finally loosening its grip.

He takes the bag with both hands, like it’s sacred.

Like it might fall apart if he’s not careful.

His voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it when he says, “She used to write me notes like that.”

You smile. “I figured.”

He stands there for a second too long.

Then sets the bag down on the hall table and—without thinking, without checking—wraps his arms around you. Full, solid, silent. Just pulls you in and holds you like it’s the only way to stay standing.

He smells like clean soap and steam and quiet exhaustion. His heart beats steady against your cheek.

And when you finally pull back, his eyes are glassy, but clear.

“You’re not her,” he says softly.

You nod. “I know.”

“But you… remind me of the best parts.”

You lean up and press a kiss to the side of his neck, right where it creases when he bends over a serve, right where warmth lives when he thinks no one’s watching.

He breathes in like it anchors him.

And when he whispers, “Thank you,” it’s not just for the pie.

It’s for the space you gave him to be this version of himself—tender, tired, trying.

And loved anyway.

---

The Grey Society Gala is always held at the end of Hilary term.

The kind of event that drips with Oxford pretension—black-tie only, formal speeches, strings of fairy lights woven through the vaulted hall like an attempt to make ancient stone feel romantic instead of cold. There’s a string quartet tuning in the corner, glasses clinking softly as trays of wine float past on white-gloved hands.

You arrive precisely ten minutes late, which is exactly on time in Oxford social code. Your heels click steadily over the flagstone floor, your dress hugging in all the right places, and your hair swept up just enough to say: Yes, I’m accomplished. And yes, I can kill you with a single glance.

Jack sees you before you see him.

He’s standing near the dais, one hand wrapped loosely around a water glass, the other tucked into his trouser pocket like he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He’s in a perfectly tailored tux—black bow tie, crisp white shirt, Grey Society pin glittering subtly on his lapel.

But the second you walk in, he stops pretending to care about any of it.

You don’t see the shift, but the room does.

The way his posture stills. The way his jaw goes a little slack. The way his eyes track you like gravity just made a personal request.

You don’t look at him until you’re halfway across the room, laughing at something your flatmate says, fingers brushing a champagne flute as you accept it without thinking.

Then—then—you feel it.

That thing.

That magnetic pull across the air between you.

You glance up.

And there he is.

Standing still, shoulders tense, staring at you like you’ve just rewritten the terms of his existence.

There are dozens of people around. Music. Conversation. Formalwear and floral centerpieces and polished Oxford confidence in every corner.

But he’s only looking at you.

Not in a wow, you clean up nice way. Not even in a you look beautiful way.

He looks at you like you’re the final answer to a question he’s been trying not to ask all term.

Like if he says anything now, it might ruin him.

You hold his gaze for three full seconds.

Then tilt your head.

Smile, just a little.

And walk away.

Later, after the speeches and the toasts and the poorly executed attempt at a group photo, you find yourself outside under the archway, heels dangling from your fingers and the cool night air brushing your skin like a sigh.

Jack finds you there.

You don’t hear him approach, but you feel it—his presence, his pause, the way he always seems to need one extra moment before deciding it’s okay to be seen.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says finally, voice low and a little hoarse.

You glance sideways. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs, looking out across the quad. “It’s not really your crowd.”

“No,” you agree, watching him out of the corner of your eye. “But you are.”

That stops him cold.

He turns, slowly, and looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with that much truth in one sentence.

You don’t touch him. You don’t have to.

Because the way he’s looking at you now?

You’ve already got him.

And he knows it.

You’re not a dancer.

You’ve said it. Repeatedly. Loudly. In writing. And still—here you are, standing under the stained glass of the Christ Church hall as the quartet eases into something achingly slow, and Jack Draper is holding out his hand like it’s a question with only one right answer.

He doesn’t say a word.

Just looks at you like please and don’t make me beg are interchangeable.

You take his hand.

The room softens around you. Just enough space between bodies for quiet things to happen unnoticed.

Jack isn’t showy. His hand fits against your waist like he’s been practicing. His other holds yours a little too gently, like he’s afraid he might break the spell.

You dance in half-steps and slow glances, turning so slowly it feels like floating. His palm is warm against your spine. His breath hits your cheek when he exhales through his nose.

No one says anything.

No one needs to.

Because in this moment—this still, golden sliver of borrowed time—it feels like all your fights and tension and arguments were just elaborate foreplay for this one truth:

You were always going to end up here.

With him.

In his arms.

Letting go.

Later, much later, you’re in his room.

The tux jacket is draped over the back of a chair. His bowtie is untied, hanging loose around his neck. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and his curls are a little too soft from running his hands through them on the walk home.

You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, feet bare, dress unzipped halfway, your heels long forgotten by the door.

He sits beside you, close but not touching, that familiar Jack Draper silence wrapping around the two of you like a secret.

Then slowly—so slowly—he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Not performative. Not flirty.

Just… reverent.

His lips linger longer than necessary, like he’s memorizing the shape of your bones.

Then he shifts—leans in—presses a kiss to your temple. One hand cupping your jaw. His thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone.

Still nothing on the lips.

Still so much more than nothing.

His voice is soft when he says, “You’re the only thing this term that hasn’t felt like pressure.”

You breathe in. You don’t breathe out.

And then his mouth finds your shoulder.

The bare skin there.

The place where your dress has slipped slightly lower than it should’ve.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s a confession.

One that lands so gently it breaks you anyway.

It’s late now. The window is cracked. His room smells like rain and aftershave and melted candle wax.

He’s changed into a hoodie and joggers. You’re wearing one of his old tennis tees and a pair of sweats that are too big but somehow feel like armor.

You’re lying on your sides, facing each other. There’s a six-inch gap between you and not enough air in the whole city.

“I don’t want term to end,” he says suddenly, voice wrecked from disuse.

You blink. “What?”

“I mean it.” His fingers twitch against the sheet. “Everyone’s going home. Internships. Family plans. Term ends and things… change.”

You study him.

His mouth is tight. His eyes are tired. His hand is fisting the blanket like it’s holding him here.

“I don’t want to go back to being the guy who doesn’t know how to let people in,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“I don’t want to go back to being someone who doesn’t have this.”

Your voice, when it comes, is a whisper. “What is this, Jack?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then finally: “It’s the first thing in a long time that feels like mine.”

You don’t hesitate.

You close the space. Not with a kiss.

But with your forehead against his. Your hands curled around his wrist. Your voice, soft against his lips:

“Then don’t let it go.”

And for the first time in his whole overachieving, overthinking, overwound life—

He doesn’t.

You wake up first.

The curtains are half-open, letting in the slow, honeyed light of a Sunday morning. It pools across the bed like spilled tea, warm and gentle. Jack’s arm is thrown across your waist, his fingers curled loosely at your side like he fell asleep mid-reach and forgot to let go.

His breath is steady. His curls are a riot against the pillow. There’s a smudge of sleep still beneath one eye.

You don’t move.

You just lie there and watch the way the early light softens him. The angles of his jaw. The quiet curve of his mouth. The fact that even in sleep, he’s holding on.

His hand twitches slightly. You feel it before you hear the tiny, instinctive murmur from his chest.

He shifts.

And then his voice—raspy, low, barely awake:

“You staring at me?”

You smile into his hoodie sleeve. “No.”

“Liar.”

He cracks one eye open, sees you smiling, and sighs like he’s already done for.

“You drool a little,” you whisper.

“I’m choosing not to hear that.”

“You’re the little spoon now,” you add.

“Shut up.”

He buries his face in your shoulder.

You let him.

---

The problem isn’t that you’re seated across from him in a shared discussion.

The problem is that Jack Draper is looking at you like he remembers.

Like he’s replaying the way you curled into his chest last night. Like he can still feel your laugh pressed into his throat. Like his fingers are itching to reach back across the seminar table and tug your sleeve just to make sure you’re real.

You try to stay focused.

You try to care about incentive structures in economic theory.

But your pen slips mid-note when he shifts in his seat and stretches—biceps flexing, jaw ticking slightly as he cracks his neck.

You don’t mean to glance at him.

But you do.

And he knows.

His mouth twitches—just the barest, smug little smile.

You write “YOU’RE DISTRACTING.” in block capitals on your notepad and angle it toward him.

He glances down.

Then leans over slightly and slides your pen from your fingers just to underline it.

Twice.

You kick him under the table.

He grins.

The tutor pauses mid-sentence, glances between the two of you, and sighs like they’re trying to decide whether to separate you or get a dissertation out of the tension.

---

It’s the week before Easter break when he asks.

Not dramatically. Not nervously. Just—quietly.

“You want to come to Surrey with me?”

You blink. “What, like… meet your mum?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to,” he adds. “But I want you to.”

You go.

And it’s nothing like you expected.

Nicky Draper opens the door in an apron, flour on her cheek and a smile in her eyes that reminds you instantly of Jack—just warmer. Softer. The kind of smile that says I know who you are already, and I’m glad you’re here.

She hugs you before you’ve even made it inside.

Jack looks mildly scandalized.

You sit at the kitchen table while she bakes. She talks about books. About gardening. About Jack as a toddler, wild curls and no patience. She tells you he used to cry when people raised their voices—not out of fear, but because he didn’t like the sound of anger.

Your chest aches.

She asks about you—gently, curiously, like she actually wants to know. Like you’re someone she’s been waiting to meet.

At one point, she pulls out a photo album.

Jack groans audibly. “Mum.”

You don’t stop her.

He disappears to “help with the dog” halfway through. You find him twenty minutes later, sitting in the garden, knees pulled up, elbows resting there.

He doesn’t look up right away.

When he does, his eyes are softer than the sky behind him.

“She likes you,” he says.

You sit beside him on the grass. “Yeah?”

“She doesn’t like many people.”

You nudge his knee. “Must run in the family.”

He laughs under his breath.

And when he kisses you this time—slow, unhurried, a little like relief—it feels like more than just a kiss.

It feels like belonging.

Like this is what it means to be known.

To be kept.

To be loved in the quietest, most devastating way.

---

It’s the Trinity term ball, and the theme is A Midsummer Night’s Dream—which means soft fairy lights, fog machines no one asked for, and just enough garden chaos that your heels are already sinking into the lawn before you’ve even made it to the drinks tent.

Your dress is navy and slinky and devastating.

Jack told you so. Repeatedly. With his mouth, mostly. All over your neck when you got ready in his room and insisted on doing your own eyeliner because he’s “too distracting.”

You were right.

But now, standing under the canopy of wisteria and champagne flutes, you realize he’s the one who should’ve issued a warning.

Because Jack Draper in a tailored midnight suit, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show collarbone and intent? He’s lethal.

To everyone else, he looks the same—calm, aloof, maybe a little bored. The tennis player who doesn’t party much. The criminology major who’s always watching.

But you know the difference now.

You know when he’s really watching.

And tonight?

He’s watching you.

From across the dance floor.

Because someone else has you laughing.

He doesn’t even know the guy’s name—just another third-year from Somerville, tie slightly askew, leaning in too close as he tells you some story that’s clearly meant to impress.

You’re not flirting. You’re not doing anything wrong.

But Jack’s jaw ticks anyway.

Because you’re laughing in a way that makes your shoulders shake. Because the guy reaches out—hand brushing your arm like it’s casual. Like he has the right.

Jack doesn’t move right away.

Just sips his drink. Sets it down. Rolls his shoulders back like he’s shaking off something tighter than tension.

And then he crosses the floor.

Not fast. Not confrontational.

Just… decisive.

You catch him from the corner of your eye—his silhouette cutting through the haze like heat in human form.

You know that walk. That look.

Your heart skips.

“Hey,” the other guy is saying, “you want to—”

“She’s with me,” Jack says.

Not loud. Not rude.

Just final.

You turn. Your breath catches.

Because he’s looking at you—not possessively. Not arrogantly.

But like he’s already lost you in his head and can’t bear the thought of it.

You step toward him before you can stop yourself.

He meets you halfway.

“You good?” you ask, voice quiet.

He nods. Doesn’t let go of your hand. His thumb strokes across your knuckles once, twice, like he’s grounding himself.

Then, softer than you expect: “You looked happy.”

Your breath stutters. “I was laughing at a bad pun.”

“I know,” he says.

Pause.

Then he leans in, lips brushing your temple.

“You can talk to whoever you want,” he murmurs, “but don’t smile at anyone like that unless it’s me.”

You glance up. “Jealousy looks weird on you.”

“I hate it,” he admits.

You smile.

He kisses you.

Right there on the edge of the dance floor, with the fog curling around your ankles and music swelling behind you and every pair of eyes pretending not to look.

He kisses you like a promise.

Like a warning to the universe.

Like he’s done pretending you don’t own him.

---

It doesn’t happen during a kiss.

It doesn’t happen at some glamorous event or under a string of fairy lights or even in bed.

It happens in Jack’s room, two weeks before finals.

You’re both exhausted. He’s pacing.

There are papers everywhere—notes scattered across the floor, half-empty mugs, one of your hoodies crumpled on the edge of his desk chair. Jack’s wearing a grey tee and navy joggers, hair pushed back from his face in frustrated sweeps. You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed with your laptop open, trying to revise but watching him unravel.

He’s muttering to himself—something about his dissertation conclusion not “flowing.” Which you’ve already told him is a lie, because you’ve read it, and it’s brilliant. But he doesn’t believe you. Not really. Not when it comes to himself.

You call his name.

He doesn’t hear it.

You call it again.

Still pacing.

So you get up, cross the room, and gently catch his wrist mid-step.

“Jack.”

That gets him.

His eyes snap to yours, and you feel it—all of it. The weight. The pressure. The fear that somehow, despite everything, he still won’t be enough.

“Come here,” you whisper.

You pull him to the bed, make him sit, fold his long legs in beside yours. You take his hands in yours, steady and soft, anchoring him.

And that’s when it happens.

He exhales—slow, shaky. His shoulders slump. He’s quiet for a moment.

Then he looks up at you like he’s been holding it in for days. Weeks. Maybe all term.

And he just says it.

“I love you.”

No warning. No buildup. No poetic preamble.

Just Jack Draper, cracking wide open with three words that sound like surrender.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he adds, voice breaking slightly. “Not while I’m spiraling. Not when I’ve got coffee breath and—”

You cut him off with a hand to his cheek.

Your thumb brushes along his jaw, and you feel the tension bleed out under your touch.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He swallows.

“I love you.”

Quieter this time. But stronger.

Like he means it even more now that it’s out.

You smile. And then you say it back.

Not because you feel like you have to.

But because you’ve known it for weeks. Maybe since that first study session. Maybe since the chicken pie. Maybe since the second he let you in.

“I love you, Jack.”

His eyes close.

And when he kisses you—slow, reverent, nothing hurried about it—it’s not about claiming or proving or winning.

It’s about knowing.

Knowing you’re safe. Knowing he’s safe. Knowing this—you—isn’t just something good.

---

It doesn’t happen the night he says I love you.

It happens days later.

After the adrenaline has worn off and the words have sunk in and been said again, and again, and again—quietly, like a new language you’re both still learning.

It’s late.

There’s music playing low from your laptop, some lo-fi playlist that’s been looping for hours while you both pretended to study.

You’re curled up in his bed. He’s reading something over your shoulder—technically an article, but you can’t focus. Not when he’s tracing lazy shapes along your spine like it’s reflex. Like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

You roll over to face him.

He sets the article aside.

Neither of you speaks.

The air is thick with something that’s not tension—just weight. History. Want.

You kiss him.

And this time, you don’t stop.

Clothes come off slowly. Reverently. Like you’re unwrapping something sacred. You laugh when he gets tangled in your straps. He exhales shakily when you run your fingers down his chest. Your hands tremble a little.

So do his.

It’s not perfect.

It’s soft and quiet and real.

There’s eye contact. Whispered reassurances. Laughter when the duvet gets kicked off. A low groan when you tug him closer and he finally stops holding back.

And afterward?

He tucks you under his arm like you’re part of him.

No one says anything for a while.

Then he kisses your shoulder, already drifting.

And murmurs, “You still distract me more than any case study.”

You smack his chest.

He grins into your hair.

---

You live in each other’s rooms for a week straight.

There’s no formal announcement—just the slow, inevitable migration of textbooks, sweaters, and instant noodles until both your bags are tangled under the same desk.

Jack makes coffee before you can even ask. You quiz him on legal philosophy while he braids your hair absentmindedly. He reads your notes aloud like they’re bedtime stories, his voice low and calm and the only thing keeping your anxiety from devouring you whole.

You snap at him once when your flashcards fall off the bed.

He just hands them back and says, “Take a breath.”

You do. Because he said it.

The night before your last exam, you wake up at 2 a.m. in a panic, convinced you’ve forgotten everything.

Jack doesn’t tell you to calm down.

He just sits up, flips on the lamp, and reads your own summary notes back to you until you fall asleep again, face smushed into his chest.

---

It sneaks up on you.

The packing. The farewells. The inbox full of lease agreements and job offers and travel plans.

You’re sitting on Jack’s windowsill, knees pulled up to your chest, watching him fold a shirt with more focus than necessary.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says.

But you do.

“I don’t want this to end.”

He pauses. Looks at you.

“This doesn’t end,” he says, crossing the room. “Oxford ends. Essays end. But this—” He takes your hand. Lifts it to his lips. “This is mine. And I’m keeping it.”

You blink fast.

He smiles, soft. “Come home with me?”

You raise a brow. “I’ve already met your mum.”

“No,” he says. “I mean—for the summer. For… longer.”

You say yes.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it’s him.

It’s raining on graduation day.

Not dramatically—just a soft, stubborn drizzle that clings to your robe and frizzes your hair and makes everything smell like damp parchment.

You’re both in sub-fusc. You’re both too proud to cry. You’re both holding hands so tight it leaves marks.

After the ceremony, under a tent with terrible canapés and lukewarm champagne, Jack pulls you aside.

He doesn’t drop to one knee. Doesn’t make a speech.

He just pulls a small silver ring from his pocket—simple, elegant, engraved with the date you met.

He holds it out.

“I’m not proposing,” he says. “Not yet.”

You stare at it. At him.

“But I want to be the person you come home to. Always.”

You blink.

“Is this your way of asking me to move in with you?”

“It’s my way of telling you I’ve already cleared out a drawer.”

You laugh.

Then you throw your arms around him and kiss him so hard the rain forgets what it’s doing.

And he whispers I love you again.

Not because he’s afraid.

But because he knows it now.

This isn’t the end.

It’s just the first chapter you get to write together.

---

The letter arrives in May.

An offer. Postgrad business program in New York. Top-tier. Fully funded. Starts in August.

You read it three times before looking up from your laptop.

Jack’s sitting across from you, shirt inside out, a pencil tucked behind his ear, scribbling notes into the margins of a criminal justice textbook he technically doesn’t need to read anymore.

You say nothing.

Just sit there, the offer glowing on your screen like a door.

Like a threat.

That night, you don’t tell him.

You pretend things are normal. Eat leftover curry. Watch an episode of some slow-burn drama with subtitles you barely follow. He massages your calf absently while your feet rest in his lap, and when he yawns into your shoulder, you pretend you’re not spiraling.

But he knows.

Of course he does.

He always knows.

The next night, when he comes home and finds you sitting in his desk chair, turning the ring he gave you over and over in your fingers, he finally asks.

“What’s going on?”

You blink up at him.

Then quietly: “I got in.”

He doesn’t react right away.

Just nods.

“How long did you know?”

“Since yesterday.”

A long pause.

Then, “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I didn’t know how.”

He nods again, jaw tight.

You stand. “Jack—”

“Are you going?”

That’s the question. Isn’t it?

Are you going to leave the boy who learned how to open up for you? Who held your panic attacks and kissed your forehead after every tutorial and traced poetry into your thigh while you studied in his bed?

Are you going to leave home?

You exhale. “I don’t know.”

He steps closer. Quiet. Measured.

“I won’t ask you to stay.”

You blink, surprised.

“I want to,” he says. “God, I want to. But I won’t. Because if you stay for me, you’ll resent me. And if you leave without talking to me, I’ll resent you. And I don’t want us to ruin this by pretending we’re not terrified.”

Your throat tightens.

He lifts a hand to your face, brushes your hair back. “So here’s the deal.”

You meet his eyes.

“I want you to go. If that’s where your heart is. I’ll visit. We’ll call. We’ll figure it out. But if you stay—”

He falters. Then steadies.

“If you stay, I want it to be because you want to. Not because I made it harder to leave.”

You stare at him.

He smiles—soft, wrecked. “I love you more than I love the version of us that’s easy.”

You close the distance. Hands on his chest. Forehead to his. You breathe him in like it might be the last time.

And then you whisper:

“I don’t want to go. Not really. I just… didn’t know if I was allowed to stay.”

His voice cracks.

“You’ve always been allowed to stay.”

But, you go.

Not forever. Not even for that long, really. Just long enough.

A one-year intensive in New York. Career-defining. Nearly impossible to say no to.

Jack doesn’t ask you to.

He drives you to Heathrow in silence, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other clutching your fingers like a lifeline.

At the gate, he kisses you like it might break him.

You laugh to stop from crying. “It’s not the end.”

“I know,” he says, but it sounds like don’t make me say goodbye.

You leave anyway.

Because some things are worth risking the ache for.

You figure it out.

Kinda.

He sends voice notes in the morning. You send blurry subway selfies at night. Sometimes the time difference feels manageable. Sometimes it feels like a wall.

You miss each other at least once a week—calls gone unanswered, messages delayed, a missed FaceTime where he falls asleep waiting and you wake up wrecked with guilt.

Your first fight happens because of nothing.

Literally nothing.

He says, “You didn’t reply for six hours.”

You say, “It was 2 a.m. when you texted me, Jack.”

Then there’s silence.

And when he finally calls back, his voice is quiet. Tired. “I just miss you.”

You crumble.

“I miss you.”

And you say it again, and again, and again, until it feels like an apology and a prayer in one.

It comes on a Tuesday.

An envelope with your name on it in his handwriting, sent across the sea like it matters.

Inside, a note on lined notebook paper.

“I know you could’ve stayed. And you didn’t. And I still love you for it.”

“You’re building your life. I’m just proud to still be in it.”

“I don’t sleep well when I can’t hear your breathing.”

“I kissed your hoodie last night. Didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

“This is hard. But loving you isn’t.”

You read it three times. Then cry into your pillow until the ink smudges from your fingertips.

It’s December.

You’ve got finals, you’re exhausted, your flat smells like instant noodles and recycled ambition.

And then there’s a knock at your door.

You drag yourself up, open it, fully expecting your neighbor or a UPS guy.

But it’s Jack.

Hair messy. Hoodie too thin for New York winter. Eyes full of something unsteady and so sure.

You just stand there.

He lifts a takeaway bag and shrugs. “Figured we could eat curry and fall asleep watching Netflix like we used to.”

You fling yourself into his arms so fast, he nearly drops the food.

He doesn’t care.

He buries his face in your neck and exhales like he’s finally breathing properly.

Neither of you says “I love you.”

Not out loud.

You don’t have to.

You finish the program.

You pack your books, your dreams, your heartbreak.

And you come back.

Not because you failed. Not because you couldn’t hack it.

But because you’re ready.

Jack meets you at the airport, holding the same stupid hoodie you left in his flat. He’s pacing until he sees you—then still.

Then gone.

He doesn’t speak. Just drops everything to wrap his arms around you like he’s trying to fold the past year into his chest and keep it there.

Later, curled up in bed, he whispers, “Was it worth it?”

You look at him, thumb brushing his jaw.

And say, “Yeah. But this is better.”

---

It starts in the kitchen.

Because of course it does.

The same kitchen Jack grew up in—walls a little yellowed, mugs older than his career, the radio warbling some soft Sunday tune between Brenda Lee and BBC weather blurbs.

Brenda is sitting at the table, wrapped in a pastel cardigan, her hands curled loosely around a mug she’s barely sipped. Chris hovers nearby, ever watchful, his hand resting gently over hers like he can anchor her to now with just a touch.

Ozzy’s snoozing under the table.

Ben’s pretending to be helpful, sneaking bites of crumble from the baking dish.

And you?

You’re sitting beside Jack on the bench seat, his knee warm against yours, the kind of closeness that feels permanent now. Like furniture. Like gravity.

The chatter is soft. Familiar. His mum is wiping her hands on a tea towel. Chris is telling a story you’ve heard before but love anyway. Brenda is nodding, not always on beat, but with that same elegant posture that makes Jack still sit up straighter when she’s in the room.

Then Jack stands.

No warning.

No speech queued.

Just… stands.

Everyone turns.

You look up, startled.

He clears his throat, like it’s stuck. Like this moment is caught somewhere between his ribs and his resolve.

“I—um.” He laughs, short. Nervous.

You tilt your head, brow furrowed. “You alright?”

He nods. But doesn’t sit.

Then he reaches into his hoodie pocket.

Pulls out a ring box. Simple. No velvet. No frills. Just Jack.

And drops to one knee.

You freeze.

Ben nearly chokes on crumble.

Nicky gasps—hands flying to her mouth.

Chris straightens, eyes wide but steady.

And Brenda?

She looks up. Just for a second. Just long enough for her gaze to find Jack—her boy, her legacy—and hold.

He sees it.

He swallows hard.

Then turns back to you, still kneeling on the kitchen tile.

“Look,” he says softly, voice cracking. “I know this isn’t candlelit or choreographed. I didn’t rehearse anything. I didn’t even plan to do it today.”

You can barely breathe.

“But I woke up this morning,” he continues, “and you were in my hoodie and there was toothpaste on your cheek, and you were humming while feeding Ozzy leftover toast—and I just…”

He shakes his head.

“I didn’t want another day to go by where I hadn’t asked you to be mine forever.”

Silence.

Heavy. Holy.

“I want the mundane with you,” he says. “The grocery lists and lost keys and rainy Sundays. I want to do life—not just the shiny bits. All of it. With you.”

You’re crying.

Of course you are.

Everyone is, except maybe Ozzy, who just shifts a little closer to your ankle like he knows something’s important.

Jack opens the box.

The ring is understated. Beautiful. A thin band with a small diamond and a subtle engraving you won’t notice until hours later:

“Still, always.”

“Will you marry me?” he asks. “Please?”

You nod before you can speak. Before air even returns to your lungs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since freshman year.

Slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

You pull him up. Kiss him full. Everyone claps. Even Ben’s teary, pretending not to be.

And behind it all—quiet and flickering like candlelight—Brenda smiles.

It’s faint. Fleeting.

But it’s there.

She reaches out. Touches Jack’s hand.

And for a moment—one shimmering, impossible moment—it feels like time gave you something back.

---

It’s not in a church.

It’s in a garden.

A walled one—old bricks and ivy, tucked behind a manor on the Surrey countryside, the kind of place that smells like lavender and loam and the kind of quiet Jack hasn’t known since he was fourteen.

There’s no grand guest list. No press. No player entourage.

Just family. Close friends. People who know him. People who matter.

Brenda isn’t well enough to walk, but she’s there. Wrapped in a wool shawl, settled under a canopy of white wisteria, Chris by her side with his hand in hers and a blanket tucked around both their laps.

Ozzy is the unofficial ring bearer. He has a bow tie and no manners, and when he trots down the aisle to deliver the ring box to Jack, the crowd laughs. Jack beams.

Because that? That’s what he wanted.

Nothing polished. Nothing perfect.

Just joy.

The music starts.

Not a string quartet. Not classical.

It’s Wonderwall. The acoustic version—the one Jack played for you the night he said “I love you” and you kissed his shoulder in response because your throat was too tight to speak.

Your dress makes you look like a secret. A promise. Something only he gets to keep.

And Jack?

Jack looks like a man who has never been more certain of anything in his life.

He’s in a tailored navy suit. No tie. Open collar. His curls are a little unruly, like always, and his hands shake just enough as you walk toward him.

When he sees you?

He doesn’t cry.

He breaks.

Eyes brimming. Jaw tight. Lips parted in some silent word you don’t catch—but you know it’s your name. Always your name.

You reach him.

He takes your hands like he’s never going to let go again.

The vows are handwritten.

You both agreed on that.

Jack goes first.

He doesn’t speak loudly. Doesn’t project for the crowd.

He just looks at you.

“I didn’t believe in fate,” he says. “Not really. Not until you. You weren’t what I expected. You were better. Harder. Smarter. Louder in the right ways. You called me out when I needed it. You pulled me back when I got stuck in my own head. You didn’t fix me. You just stayed.”

You’re crying. Obviously.

“I’ve had a lot of titles,” he says. “But my favorite is yours.”

And then, softly, almost shy:

“I promise to be your home. Your teammate. Your tea maker when you’re tired. I promise to show up—especially on the days I don’t know how.”

He smiles.

“I love you. Still. Always.”

You don’t remember your own vows, not really. You just remember the way he looked at you the entire time—like the rest of the world had faded out.

Afterward, there’s no formal reception.

Just long wooden tables under fairy lights. String lights woven through hedges. Homemade food from Nicky’s recipe book. A playlist built by Jack, full of deep cuts and soft instrumentals and one track—only one—that makes everyone get up and dance.

There are speeches. Ben’s is ridiculous. Paul Jubb tells a story about Jack that almost gets censored.

Chris raises a toast that makes everyone go quiet.

And Brenda—God, Brenda—smiles.

When Jack and you slow dance, she watches. And her lips move. Just the tiniest bit.

Later, Chris will swear she said, “My boy.”

Jack won’t correct him.

You leave late.

Hand in hand. Quietly.

No big send-off. No sparklers. Just stars and the sound of gravel underfoot as Jack opens the car door for you and kisses your knuckles before you get in.

You look over at him, smiling like a secret.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods. “Better than.”

Then, under his breath, almost reverently:

“You’re my wife.”

Like it’s a prayer.

Like it’s a miracle.

Like it’s everything.

---

It’s been four years since the wedding.

You live in London now. A quiet street tucked behind a busier one, the kind of neighborhood with corner florists, three cafes within walking distance, and a postman who knows your dog’s name.

Jack’s up early most days—earlier than you, even. He still jogs before breakfast, hoodie pulled tight over his curls, headphones in as he runs past the bakery and down toward the river, his mind half in his body, half on the unsolved case he’s been thinking about all week.

Detective Draper. It still makes you grin.

He works in major crimes now—soft-spoken but sharp as hell. Colleagues trust him. Victims feel safe with him. He keeps his notebooks in a drawer you’re technically not allowed to open but totally have. He doesn’t get mad. Just raises an eyebrow and calls you “curious” with that smile that still short-circuits your lungs.

You?

You’ve built your own empire.

You launched your business consultancy two years ago—quietly, without fanfare. Now you’re fielding offers weekly. Startups. NGOs. One time, a Premier League club. You have a team. An office. A barista who knows your order.

But home?

Home is Jack.

Always Jack.

It’s a Friday night when it happens.

Jack gets home late. He’s tired, muddy from a crime scene that involved more fields than sense, and carrying two grocery bags like a man who knows better than to forget your pasta cravings.

“Love?” he calls, toeing his boots off. “I brought those crisps you like—”

He stops dead in the kitchen doorway.

You’re standing at the stove. Wearing his hoodie. Stirring a pot of tomato sauce. There’s a glass of wine on the counter. Two place settings. And… a tiny envelope propped up against his water glass.

Jack frowns. Picks it up.

Inside?

A single sheet of paper.

One black-and-white image.

And three words.

“Hi, Daddy. Coming soon.”

He stares.

Then looks up at you.

You don’t speak.

You just nod. A little watery-eyed. A little trembling.

Jack doesn’t move at first.

Then he sets the card down, crosses the room, and drops to his knees in front of you like he’s been knocked breathless.

“Are you—?”

You nod again.

And he presses his face to your belly, laughing and crying at the same time.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers. “You’re really—?”

“Ten weeks.”

He exhales like it’s the first time he’s breathed in days.

His arms wrap around your waist. “You’re okay? Baby’s okay?”

“So far, yeah.”

He nods, still on the floor, still holding you like you might float away.

Then, into your jumper, he whispers, “They’ll have your stubbornness and my caffeine dependency. God help us all.”

Later that night, he can’t stop touching you. Your back. Your hair. The curve of your stomach that hasn’t changed yet, but might tomorrow. His hand stays there while you sleep, tucked under the hem of your hoodie like a vow.

Before he drifts off, he murmurs it:

“I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

And then, even softer:

“They’re gonna be so loved.”

---

It’s just past midnight.

Rain tapping against the hospital window like it knows this is the moment it all changes.

You’ve been in labor for hours—gripping Jack’s hand, half cursing him, half clinging to him while he whispered every encouragement he could think of. You’ve never seen him so pale. Or so calm. Or so completely wrecked by your pain.

Now, you’re both holding your breath.

And then—

A cry.

Not loud. Not long. But real. Sharp. Shaky. Hers.

Jack goes completely still.

Like time has stopped. Like every muscle in his body is suddenly tuned to that sound.

The midwife lifts her up—red-faced, scrunched, miraculous—and Jack’s hand flies to his mouth.

“Is she—?”

“She’s perfect,” the nurse says, already placing her onto your chest.

You’re crying.

But Jack? Jack’s sobbing.

Not like the movies. Not dramatic. Just… silent, stunned tears. Like something in him is cracking open and pouring out.

He leans over you, one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other brushing her damp curls.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

She lets out another wail, and he laughs—choked and breathless.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Go on then. Let the whole world know.”

The room is quiet now.

She’s sleeping on your chest, bundled in a swaddle three sizes too big. Jack is sitting beside the bed, still in scrubs, still shellshocked. But glowing. Absolutely glowing.

“She looks like you,” you say softly.

He shakes his head. “She looks like us. But mostly me. Poor thing.”

You chuckle.

He leans forward, strokes a finger down her cheek. His wedding band catches the light.

“You still want to go with the name?” he asks.

You nod.

He swallows.

Then looks down at her with eyes that can barely take it in.

“Welcome to the world, Nicky Brenda Draper.”

Named for the women who taught him strength, who held him steady, who gave him love before he knew what to do with it.

Jack Draper may have known a lot of titles—student, athlete, detective, husband.

But this?

This is the one that undoes him.

“Daddy,” he whispers. “Yeah, that’s me. Didn’t think I’d ever get to be that.”

You watch him, his eyes full of wonder as he takes in the tiny life you’ve made together. “You’re going to be amazing at it,” you murmur, your voice thick with sleep and joy.

Jack looks up at you, his thumb brushing the corner of his eye. “You think so?”

You nod. “I know so. You’re going to be a wonderful dad.”

Jack’s eyes shine as he looks at his daughter. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

You smile. “We both do.”

[ct-headcanons]

TBB and Zodiac Signs

• Crosshair is a Scorpio! He is passionate about whatever he sets his signs onto, his heart aiming to put all he can into everything possible. He is perceptive, picking up on everything, even things that most people don't normally take the time to notice. He is emotional, even if he wouldn't ever admit it, often succumbing to his emotional whirlwinds - including being paranoid, hypocritical, and passive aggressive on his worst days. But the man is also fiercely determined and sacrificing, willing to do anything for those that he loves, even at his own detriment...but not without a snarky comment or two, as per usual from our beloved sniper.

• Echo is a Virgo! He is modest, humble, orderly, valuing the logical and organized things in life. He takes the chaos and conflict of everyday fighting and hubbub, and makes it make sense - even if sometimes he obsesses over the little details and becomes a perfectionist. He is an altruistic man with plans to make the world a better place, one rulebook at a time. He is often put in charge of organizing events, or plans, and he gratefully takes on this task because no one does it better than our dear Echo. He won't admit how good he is at just being a good man. But everyone knows it, and tells him so.

• Hunter is an Aries! Aries is the first of the Zodiac, and Hunter is the first of the brothers! Hunter is brave direct, and a natural leader, with a deep sense of justice. On his bad days, he can be aggressive and selfish with his orders, since he is the Sergeant, and may push his own feelings or thoughts onto others, in an attempt to get them to understand, but without proper communication, it just comes out as Hunter being aggressive. But he has everyone's best interests at heart, and he holds his leadership status close to his heart and with age and practice has grown to communicate instead of being so headstrong.

• Omega is a Pisces! Omega was very difficult to place, but I feel comfortable with my placement for her sun sign. Omega is very intuitive, creative, and romantic. Maybe not romantic in the traditional sense, but romantic in the sense of wanting everyone in the universe to get along, and wanting the best for everyone. She has a smart head on her shoulders, but she often gets herself out of situations due to her uncanny ability to be creative with her solutions. She is also so compassionate and sensitive. Sometimes she can be a little unrealistic, but it kind of works out for her in her favor, for the most part. Lucky Omega! May the Force Be With You!

• Tech is an Aquarius! He is very intelligent and inventive, and altruistic, always looking for something to fix, update, improve, or work on. There is always something to do for him! Unfortunately, due to his highly intelligent brain, and a little due to his personality, he can be a little emotionally detached and impersonal, instead focusing on the physical aspect of the world rather than the emotional. That's no problem, however! He helps out however else he can without complaint! He is irreplaceable and he secretly fixes gadgets and weapons that need updating, even without asking. He notices the little things and gets them done. He can do literally anything he puts his mind to.

• Wrecker is a Leo! Wrecker is brave, playful, fun, and warm! In all the right ways, this man is the embodiment of a ray of sunshine. He is protective about his loved ones and generous with them, a gentle giant. But if he isn't reigned in, he can become egotistical and a show-off about his abilities, being vain about the things that he can do that the others can't do. It's not fair, and he knows that, but sometimes it's nice for him to have that attention. And when he gets stubborn? Forget about it. If his mind is set, that's it. He's a good-hearted family man, though, and everyone loves him. Of course.

[averagemrfox]

Making a Luigi Board for a white elephant gift

[hinamie]

newest issue of first years fashion just dropped

[kizzer55555]

DP x DC: The Most Dangerous Card Game

Ok so Danny has essentially claimed earth as his. And he is fully aware that there are constant threats to the planet. Now he can’t stop a threat that originates on earth (that’s something he’ll leave to the Justice league) but he can do something about outside threats. Doing some research on ancient spells, rituals, and artifacts, he cast a world wide barrier on the planet to protect it from hostile threats so they cannot enter. This will prevent another Pariah Dark incident. However, barriers like this come at a price. You see, there are two ways to make a barrier. Either make one powered up by your own energy and power (which would be constantly draining) or set up a barrier with rules. The way magic works is that nothing can be absolutely indestructible. It must have a weakness. The most powerful barriers weren’t the ones reinforced with layer after layer of protective charms and buffed up with power. Those could eventually be destroyed either by being overpowered, wearing them down, or by cutting off the original power source. No, the most powerful barriers were the ones with a deliberate weakness. A barrier indestructible except for one spot. A cage that can only be opened from the outside. Or that can only be passed with a key or by solving a riddle. So Danny chooses this type of barrier and does the necessary ritual and pours in enough power to make it. And he adds his condition for anyone to enter. 

Now the Justice league? Find out about the barrier when Trigon attempts to attack, they were preparing after he threatened what he would do once he got to earth. How he would destroy them. The Justice league tried to take the fight to him first but were utterly destroyed, so they retreated home to tend to their injuries, and fortify earth for one. Last. Stand. Only when Trigon makes his big entrance…he’s stopped.

The Justice league watch in awe as this thin see-through barrier with beautiful green swirls and speckled white lights like stars apears blocking Trigon and his army’s advance. The barrier looks so thin and fragile yet no matter how hard the warlord hits, none of his attacks can get through and neither can he damage said barrier. That’s when Constantine and Zatanna recognizes what this barrier is. Something only a powerful entity could create. For a moment, the league is filled with hope that Trigon can’t get through yet Constantine also explains that it’s not impenetrable. And clearly Trigon knows this too for he calls out a challenge. 

And that’s when, in a flash of light, a tiny glowing teenager appears. He looked absolutly minuscule compared to Trigon and yet practically glowed with power (this isn’t a King Danny AU though).

And that is when the conditions for passing the barrier are revealed. And the Justice realize that the only thing stopping Trigon and his army from decimating earth. The only way he can get through….is by beating this glowing teenager in a card game. 

Not just any card game though. The most convoluted game Sam, Danny, and Tucker invented themselves. It’s like the infinite realms version of magic the gathering, combined with Pokémon, and chess. And Danny is the master. So sit down Trigon and let’s play.

(The most intense card game of the Justice league’s life).

After Danny wins, this happens a few more times with outer word beings and possibly even demons attempting to invade earth, yet none have been able to beat the mysterious teenager in a card game. Constantine might even take a crack at it and try to figure out how to play. He’s really bad though. Every time this happens, the Justice league worry that this might be the time the teenager looses. Yet every time, he wins (even if only barely). 

Meanwhile, Danny, Sam, and Tucker have gotten addicted to the game and play it almost daily. Some teachers might seem them playing the game are are like ‘awww how cute’ not realizing this game is literally saving the world. Jazz is just happy they aren’t spending as much time on their screens playing Doomed.

[jouyato]

star-crossed..... or one might say, missile-crossed lovers

pose based off of this lol. my brain was like "brrrr burda dying in the missile" "and they were colleagues"

[sadmages]

I'm cooking. I'm cooking

[mewkwota]

*I shout from a distance* "IS THIS FAR ENOUGH??" The answer is no because I am still within range of Eden's impact.

This is probably a little over a week's worth of sketches as I desperately wanted to fill an entire page with Juno. Well I already have been filling pages with him, but I want more full-body shots. And strongly needed to see his body swaying given its bell-like shape.

As you can see, my weakest point is drawing Juno from the front, and of course that's due to his need for perfect symmetry (and arm placement which I still messed up)-- so my crooked self finds that very difficult. But I will keep trying because I want to draw him.

[dailykugisaki]

Day 223 | id in alt

Maki thinking some very unsorcererly things over a piece of damn cheesecake.

(Read from right to left💥)

[kail-lizuc]

kinda wack how you can understand the process behind your thoughts and feelings and still be affected by them. i think that if you can psychoanalyze yourself well enough in the moment you should get a free pass from feeling the thing altogether. or alternatively you should be able to shut off the logical side of your brain and just feel the thing for a moment. i dont wanna be emotional AND aware it should be either one or the other yknow

[velvetjune]

i played the remastered alan wake a while back and am replaying the original on steam, and, honestly, they’re so similar, I couldn’t tell which is which if you held up comparisons. ive come across reviews about the game looking outdated and bad (mostly compared to other releases in that time), but the original looks great and I like the hazy dark lighting for both this and awan